“No!” she cried, then clapped a hand over her mouth when she realized she had been far too loud.
He chuckled softly, the sound as smooth as velvet. “If you did, I hope you guessed correctly about certain portions of my anatomy.”
“Blade,” she chastised, sure she was the color of a ripe hothouse strawberry by now.
He just grinned at her, unrepentant. “Never say you gave me a small—”
“Good heavens,” she blurted. “Do try to behave, or I shall call you Richard.”
He quirked a lone brow. “That was a heavily guarded secret I entrusted you with, love.”
She understood that. The lightness of the moment fled.
“I know, and I thank you for letting me see a part of you that you do not share with others.”
“You are the only one I have ever told my true name,” he said, taking her by surprise. “Not even my brothers or sister know I was born Richard.”
He was close with his siblings, she knew. The Winters were a deeply bonded clan, both legitimate and illegitimate. One had but to watch them interact with one another to see it.
“It is their initials,” she said. “On your chest.”
He nodded. “I trust them all with my life, and I would give mine for any of theirs.”
“And yet you toldmeyour Christian name.”
“You gave me yourself,” he countered. “Hardly an even exchange, but all this poor East End man torn from the rookeries could offer a lady. Even this repast, meager though it is, was thieved from the kitchens.”
Felicity did not know what to say to that. She turned to her wine, only to find she had drunk it all. Was he poor? She hardly knew. He certainly dressed well, and he and his siblings ran one of the most well-known gaming hells in London. The legitimate Winters possessed a vast wealth. But while she knew so much about Blade Winter—how strong and beautiful he was beneath his clothes, how deliciously he kissed, how he felt inside her, how he laughed—so much of him remained a mystery.
And she would never unlock that mystery.
Because he could never be hers.
The fire cracked, reminding her there was a world beyond the two of them. A world she would necessarily return to, within hours. Perhaps even minutes.
“Regrets, love?” he asked, his voice low, gaze probing.
“An ocean of them.” She tried to smile, but it was hopeless. Nothing in her felt light or free or happy in this moment. “But not tonight. I will remember tonight for as long as I live.”
He studied her, silent and unsmiling, before nodding at last. “The hour is growing late, Lady Felicity. I should return you to your chamber now. I am afraid we dare not tarry any longer.”
She was not sure which hurt the most—that she must leave him or that he called her Lady Felicity once more. Part of her wished he would ask her to stay longer as he had earlier. That he would kiss her again, that he would offer to marry her himself. That somehow, some way, he could be the answer to her problems and the man who owned her heart at the same time.
But he did not ask her to stay.
Nor did he kiss her.
Instead, he rose from the bed, taking the tray with its remnants of biscuits and wine with him.
“I must get dressed,” she agreed miserably.
“I will give you some privacy as you do so,” he returned.
The perfect gentleman. A veritable stranger once more. The mood had shifted between them, growing heavy and tense.
This night was, indeed, all she would have with him.
He presented her with his back as she slid from his bed, doing her utmost not to shed a tear.
